


let the reason come in the common tongue of you loving me

by sansaswildlinglover



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/M, Future Fic, I couldn't come up with a title for this one, Oral Sex, Stannis wins AU, Targ issues, background Stannis/Sansa, bastard issues, broody!Jon who goes through another existential crisis while having hot sex with Sansa, cheeky!Sansa who's just thirsty for her cousin's hot bod and doesn't give a fuck, so I spent way too much time on that hozier fic title generator people apparently use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-12 20:45:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19236775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansaswildlinglover/pseuds/sansaswildlinglover
Summary: Written for Jonsa: A Dream of Spring, Day 2: traitors/bastards





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make this two chapters since this first part felt complete as it is. The smut will be in part 2, which I'll post on Sunday!

Queen Sansa of Houses Stark and Baratheon doesn't smile. The people at court have all witnessed an indulgent nod from her, a small quirk of her lips, or even a slight softening of her eyes, but none of them can recall ever seeing a true smile on her face. She doesn't need to smile, heads turn whenever she walks by. With her long auburn hair, fair skin, striking blue eyes and tall, willowy frame, she makes a breathtaking sight wherever she goes.

She's ever courteous and kind, never cold or harsh; it's near impossible to find a fault in her, yet the people of King's Landing whisper it's such a shame that the young and beautiful queen never smiles. Some call her the Ice Queen, and claim it's her frozen Northern blood. They say she and her stone-faced, teeth-grinding King are well suited. Others blame her sadness on him, fearing her youth and beauty are wasted on such a dour and mirthless husband. Some even remember the first time she came to King's Landing, and all of the grief that befell her all those years ago.

The boldest men, too far into their cups, boast they could melt her frozen mask if she let them. Jon supposes it's a good thing his true parentage is a well kept secret, otherwise some might suspect he's the only one who can make her thaw.

He scarcely remembers why he decided to come south all those years ago. It was right after the war, and he was tired of fighting and being cold all the time. Sansa was the last of his family, apart from Bran, who ruled Winterfell and the North now. His brother claimed he didn't need him, but Sansa begged him not to let her go South alone.

He told her he'd put an end to her betrothal, that they'd find another way to appease Stannis and ensure him of the North's loyalty. "After everything, you deserve to be happy."

"No, Jon," she said. "No one will ever marry me for love. It's quite all right. But... Don't make me go down there alone."

Now he's the Queen's Sworn Shield, her ever faithful shadow, and he supposes that's fine, it's a role that has always suited him, and he's had quite enough of being the hero in this story. He never meant to become the villain, the scoundrel who's threatening the fragile peace of a war-torn Kingdom by defiling and dishonouring his King's wife, a woman he once called sister.

All of his life, he's been told that bastards are born from lust and lies, making their nature wanton and treacherous. His entire life has been a lie, his entire existence built on greed and misplaced desire, protected by deceit and treason. Perhaps it should come as no surprise it's a traitor he's ended up becoming.

All of his life, he's been trying to fight those unfounded accusations, to prove them wrong, to be good and true, but he's made a botch of it every single time. He's been fighting a losing battle for years, and perhaps it's only natural he'd find some relief in finally giving up.

He had looked at her too long and too often, he'd breathed her in when he shouldn't have, found too much comfort and joy in her company. He had held her too tightly when she might be in danger, assisted her too eagerly when dismounting her horse. He'd dreamed of her, of touching her soft, auburn hair and her luscious body, of tasting her skin, her mouth, and her cunt; of burying himself deep inside of her as she was writhing under him, of her rose-tipped teats bouncing as she rode his cock.

Too often he had spilled in his hand with those images still fresh in his mind, but even that could be forgiven. He has been a sinner in thoughts his entire life, always wanting things that were never his to desire, but he'd only ever harmed himself with his greed. This time it's different.

He still recalls the day, early Spring, a crisp and clear morning, the chill of Winter not quite vanished, but they were of the North, and Sansa wanted to have a stroll through the gardens. Danger still lurked everywhere, even within the walls of the Red Keep, and Stannis wouldn't let her go anywhere without him or another trusted guard. 

She reached out to gently brush her fingers over the delicate petals of one of the last winter roses, leaning in to smell it. She turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. "Do you need to walk quite so close to me, Jon?"

"Apologies, Your Grace," he murmured, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. "Have you grown sick of my company?" he added.

She let out a peal of laughter, and he couldn't help the answering smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I can't remember the last time I was truly alone," she mused. "I have ladies and maids for everything, he won't even let me sleep by myself."

She had three bedmaids, and Jon never stood alone when he guarded her door at night. 

She closed the distance between them. "Do I really need your protection here?"

He averted his gaze from her twinkling blue eyes. "This is the King's command."

_"This is the King's command,"_ she mimicked him. "And what if there was true danger here? Pray tell me, Jon, what could one man do against a band of brigands set on seizing the Queen?"

He took a deep breath, wondering if he was imagining the challenge in her teasing tone. "You'd be surprised what I could do, Your Grace."

"I told you to call me Sansa when we're alone," she reminded him, walking backward as she tilted her head. "Would I?" she asked, and then tripped over the hem of her gown. 

Instinctively, he reached out, grabbing her by the shoulder and slinging his other arm around her waist to steady her. 

She huffed and smiled up at him, bracing her hands on his chest. "You caught me," she whispered, a blush rising on her cheeks. 

He gulped. "Of course. It's good to see you smile... _Sansa_."

She pressed closer to him, glancing up at him through thick eyelashes. "You make me smile, Jon," she confessed in a breathless voice before she kissed him. 

Even that one sweet, almost chaste kiss could have cost them their heads, but he still had a chance to mend that, to step back, disappoint her, and make the right choice. He did no such thing.

He's become a sinner in deeds now. He's taken what he wants, though she was never his to desire, many times. It's what dragons do. They don't care what is theirs and what isn't, they take what they want. He's tried to resist it, but he never stood a chance.

The Queen doesn't smile, but Sansa smiles for him. She laughs and kisses his face. She moans for him and whimpers his name on a broken sigh. He's acted out all of his foul, deprived dreams with her, and more, but still he can't get enough. He was raised as a Stark, so he knows it's wrong, but he's a bastard dragon, and that must be why it feels right. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little later than expected. I ended up not having a lot of time to write yesterday, and when I eventually did, I got a migraine that, combined with the heat left me miserable until I slept for 12 hours and then woke up still feeling miserable because of dehydration. Anyway, when I finally felt halfway human again dgfjkdjkf, I finished this and realized enough plot and sexy times had crept its way into my head for this story for a third chapter, so yaaay, I guess :D  
> I'm just going to say you'll get it soon, as in probably this week, but I won't promise a specific date. Somehow it never works out when I do :')

Jon isn't sure how Sansa managed to convince Stannis they should have a tourney, but perhaps he doesn't want to know. Sansa has always been a dutiful wife, after all.

Stannis has never struck him as the type who's easily swayed by womanly wiles, but he's also seen Sansa work her magic on him, charm him into changing his mind or even choosing a different course. It sickens him to think of it, this semblance of a succesful, a happy marriage even. He knows it's a lie, but Sansa was born to be a queen, and she plays her part so well. 

It shouldn't bother him. Stannis is her king and her husband, and Jon is the interloping bastard seducing her into secret meetings and dalliances. He's the one who’s dishonouring her and putting her in danger. 

He's made up his mind. He's going to tell her they need to end this.  He'll do it after the tournament, let her enjoy these last few days.  He'll take her anger and her pain, because he knows this is what's best for her. Even if he's hurting her, he's only doing so to protect her.

The flap of his tent is lifted, and he hears two voices exchange some words. She steps inside then, as if summoned by his thoughts. 

"Good morning to you,  Jon," she greets him.

"Your Grace," he nods.

She informs him she sent his squire away. "So we can talk freely."

He arches an eyebrow, watching as she closes the distance between them. Her hand glides up his chest and around his neck, into the hair at the nape of his neck. 

His body responds of its own accord, leaning in to capture her lips in an almost bruising kiss,  _almost,_ it wouldn't be wise to leave marks. HIs shoulders relax and a sigh of relief escapes from his mouth, disappearing between her eagerly parted lips. His arms encircle her waist as she smiles into the kiss, and she nips at his bottom lip, pulling back with a giggle.

"I have something for you," she tells him, slightly panting as she steps out of his embrace. 

"Oh," he manages, he'd rather just have her again.

She laughs at his poor response and reaches into the pocket of her gown, extracting a tiny bundle she unfolds before handing it to him. "I'd ask you to wear it for me in the melee on the morrow," she tells him.

The fabric is smooth in his hands, but slightly warm from being carried so close to her body. It's shaped rectangularly, quartered in sections of black and blue, the two lower ones have a pair of wolves facing each other. Even if her needlework wasn't as skilled and detailed, he would recognize them as Ghost and Lady. The empty sections are trimmed with weirwood leaves, his half has snowflakes scattered across the black fabric, hers yellow flowers across the blue. 

He takes a deep breath, resisting the urge to crumple her favour in his fist. "I can't accept this," he sighs, trying to hand it back to her.

She keeps her hands clutched in front of her chest, but her face falls. "Why not?"

His head jerks down. He's not doing this now. "Red on black," he murmurs half-heartedly, knowing she'll easily see through the lie, but he still adds: "It's too dangerous."

She puts her hands on her hips, shaking her head, and it reminds him too much of the girl she used to be, the past they both lost. "Don't be ridiculous. We're the only ones who know. Black is for the Night's Watch, it's still the only colour you ever wear."

Of course he can't fool her, especially when he's not even trying. He shakes his head. It appear he  _is_ doing this now. "I don't deserve this."

"Jon, please." She reaches for him, but he turns away, knowing how her touch or even one look from her can make him weak.

"I don't deserve this," he repeats, squeezing his eyes shut as she puts her hand on his elbow. "This is wrong. All the things I did to you, made you do..."

Her grip on his elbow tightens and he's forced to look at her. Her mouth is set in a harsh line and her eyes are blazing.  _Good,_ he thinks, _give me your rage._ He wants it.

"Jon Snow," she begins, nostrils flaring. "Do I need to remind you that I chose you? You never _made_ me do anything. I'm not some silly maid wet with love for you, too young and stupid to know her own heart. You forget that I have been there once."

"Does it matter, Sansa?" he asks her, forcing the question out through gritted teeth. "It's still wrong.  _Gods,_ what would your father say?" Perhaps that's not enough. "What about your mother?"

Her eyes ice over. "My mother and father are long dead. They don't get to decide. Life is not a song, Jon, if we want something, we have to take it ourselves, and I want you!"

"You shouldn't."

"Please, Jon," she whispers, her anger fading again. "I don't want to argue. You're all I have left in this world."

"Sansa," he implores her, pinching the bridge of his nose, avoiding her eyes again. "I'm a sick, depraved bastard. You deserve so much better than me." 

"I don't care about you being a bastard!" she practically shouts. "In fact, I might prefer you this way! None of my ladies' noble husbands love them the way you love me!" 

He glances up at her, arms hanging limp by his side, allowing her to close the distance between them and tuck her favour into the pocket of his doublet before reaching up and cupping his cheeks.

"Please," she repeats with a sad smile. "I don't want to fight, Jon. I love you. I love your sweet face and your true heart."

"I love you," he answers despite himself, because it's the truth and he always wants to tell her, wants her to know she is so loved. 

She presses a soft kiss to his lips. She rubs their noses together and sighs: "I love you." His eyes fly open as he senses the shift in her tone, the languid warmth in her body. "And I love your bastard mouth, and what it can do to me." 

She kisses him again, licking at the seam of his lips until they part for her, and he groans into her mouth as she curls her tongue around his. 

Her voice is needy and breathless when she says: "I love your bastard hands on my body." She takes his hands and puts one on her hip, the other on her breast. He revels in the soft pliant warmth of her, squeezes lightly, and she arches into his touch.

"And I love your bastard cock," she finishes her declaration. She cups him through his breeches, even as her cheeks go red at those words coming out of her mouth. 

He's more than a bit shocked, even though he probably shouldn't be. He's usually the one who enjoys whispering filthy endearments into her ear and neck, against her mouth or the swell of her breasts, into the hot wet flesh of her cunt, but she keeps surprising him. Perhaps he should have expected this. 

He reaches up to frame her face in his hands as heat starts coiling low in his groin. Her hand squeezes him, ever so lightly, and he can already feel himself dissolving into a panting mess.

"Tell me more," he growls as he bucks into her hand, his fingers spearing into her hair so he can crush their lips together again. She moans, surrendering to the push and pull of his mouth, nipping and nibbling at his lips.

"I love the weight and feel of it in my hand," she whispers as her dainty fingers unlace him. She sighs as she wraps her hand around his length, as if to prove her words.

"I love the way it fills me up and how you fuck me so nice with it," she murmurs against his lips, lightly stroking him into hardness.

"I fuck you nice?" he asks, the hint of amusement in his voice dying on a hiss when she flicks her wrist to squeeze the head of his cock.

She releases him then and sinks to her knees. She presses a soft kiss to the very tip of him and glances up at his face with big, innocent eyes. "And I love taking it in my mouth."

She moans around him as she does so, and his eyes nearly roll into the back of his head. She flattens her tongue, dragging it back along the underside and swirling it around the head, prodding the slit before she takes him in deeper again.

 _"Seven Hells,_ Sansa," he groans, a curse he's picked up after so many years in the south. "So good," he babbles. "So good." In the back of his mind, he vaguely registers this is not how that conversation was supposed to end, but he's already too far gone to truly care.

He opens his eyes as she smiles around his cock and the sight of it almost ends him. 

He frames her face in his hands again, winding his fingers through her hair. As gently as possible, he starts guiding her, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. Her gaze is dark and eager as his glistening cock moves in and out of the enclosure of her warm, swollen lips.

"Wait," he tells her. "Stop."

She sucks him hard before releasing him, a slight frown knitting her eyebrows together.

"We don't have much time. I want to be inside you."

Her lips curl up. "How do you want me?"

Every possible way he can imagine, but one will have to do. He reaches for her hands to help her up. "Get on the cot and lift your skirts for me."

She obeys eagerly, perching herself on the edge of the cot and bunching the layers of her skirts up over her belly, spreading her legs for him. 

He goes to kneel in front of her, unlacing her smallclothes and pulling them down and off. The curls between her thighs are glistening and she's slippery when he brushes a finger over her folds.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans. 

"I always get wet sucking your cock," she answers, bracing herself on her elbows.

He runs his hand up her stocking and then the smooth bare flesh of her thigh, lifting her leg over his shoulder. "I want to have a taste first."

She shudders as he licks up her slit, and even though he doesn't really believe in any gods anymore, he'll never get tired of worshipping at the altar that is her cunt. 

He laps up her arousal, tongues the sensitive spot right below her entrance before dipping into it. Her heads drops back when he starts circling her swollen nub. He could do this for hours, but they don't have time, so he closes his lips over it and sucks.

"Gods," she whimpers. "Inside me, Jon, now!"

"As my queen commands," he rumbles into her sensitive flesh, before straightening up. He gives himself a couple of tugs before lining his cock up with her entrance and pushing into her. They moan in unison as he slowly fills her up. He pulls her closer by her hips and she pushes herself up to wrap her arms and legs around him, slanting her mouth over his to kiss him.

As he starts moving, putting one hand on the small of her back, he slips a hand between their bodies to push his thumb to her pearl. He won't last long, and he wants to feel her peak around him.

"Do you like the way I'm fucking you with my bastard cock?" he asks. Her walls spasm around him, and she whimpers. He's not sure why being reminded of his being a bastard arouses her, but he loves it regardless.

"Harder," she tells him, nuzzling his cheek. "Faster."

Being so close to her only feels good, even if it's wrong. Her cunt grips him so deliciously, and he can't be inside her half as often as he'd love to be, so truly, he would like to savour the experience, draw it out as long as he can, but he can't resist her, can't refuse her anything, so he obeys.

He buries his face in her neck and her hot breath ghosts over his ear. "Come on my bastard cock," he murmurs into her skin, and a mewl escapes from her lips.

She's already tightening and fluttering around him, and he can feel the coil in his groin growing tighter, the pressure at the base of his spine rising. He rubs her nub harder, feeling her entire body tense up around his, but he won't make it, he can feel it.

He tries to slow down, pull back, but she whines in protest. "I'm so close."

"So am I," he grunts. "I won't be able to stop."

"Then don't," she answers, her voice high and breathless. "Spill inside me."

"Sansa," he warns her.

"Fuck, please don't stop," she starts to cry out, and he muffles her moans with a kiss. 

Her cunt clenches around him, and her peak prompts his, waves of pleasure crashing through his body as his hips stutter and snap.

He goes slack against her, head dropping to her shoulder, as the last tremors of her climax almost stir his softening cock back to life.

"I shouldn't have done that," he mutters as she lowers her legs and loosens her hold on him. "I shouldn't have spilled inside you." It has happened before, but he always tries to avoid it. 

She presses her lips to his hair. "It's all right, Jon," she whispers. "No harm was done. I'm already with child."

The soft warm bliss in his limbs is chased away by the ice that instantly spreads through his veins. 

 

 


End file.
